


The King of Rats

by TheWeirdDane



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Animal Death, Death, Gen, I tried to be historically accurate, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Necromancy, Religious Content, also i dont know how to incorporate solomon's nine brothers, neither is tenebrae but who's surprised, no animals like actively die IN the story, so here they're all just dead before solomon is born, solomon's father is not a nice man, there's a lot of talk about death and stuff, they're already dead but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 17:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWeirdDane/pseuds/TheWeirdDane
Summary: A child discovers a talent for dark magic. A teenager is thrown out of their house. An adult finds a new home.





	The King of Rats

**Author's Note:**

> What is UP, I did something without porn??? I am SHOCKED. Anyway, this is my headcanon of Solomon Wreath's background/childhood. It's not a nice one, but I like my babes to suffer, so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯   
> Please be aware of the tags!

Having the skills associated with necromancers wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy for an adult, let alone for a child.

When Solomon Wreath was five years old, he was fascinated by withered plants and deceased animals. Morbidly fascinated, some would say. These ‘some’ included his parents. They were all but pleased with his fascination and obsession with these ‘disgusting’ objects. They talked about it late at night, Solomon was sure. He sometimes stayed up late and heard them whispering by the dinner table, but they used words he’d never heard before. ‘Necromancy’, ‘reanimating’, ‘phylactery’. All words that he had never heard, but that now created a yearning for understanding, a thirst for knowledge.

Solomon pretended he hadn’t heard a thing, of course. He was a smart child, he knew that if his parents whispered about something in the dark of night, then it was probably not a good thing. But that didn’t stop him from playing with the dead rats in the street or the withered plants they passed on their walks. Of course, his mother would scold him. But only with words. His father, on the other hand, was much firmer and more physical with his displeasure at his son’s activities. Never in the streets, of course, never publicly. But when they got home, Solomon felt the rage and displeasure of his father.

Did this stop Solomon from dabbling in this dark magic he didn’t even know the name of? Naturally not. He only started doing it in secret, in the lieu of night when his parents were fast asleep, his father by the bottle and his mother by the exhaustion. Solomon made the brown and crumpled leaves green and straight again, and he made a rat’s paws twitch, even got the tail to flail. He focused all his energy into these deceased creatures, so much so that he had a hard time paying attention in school - something that got him punished by both teacher and father.

He started associating the two with each other, and by the end of the day, he would come to hate them both equally.

When Solomon Wreath was seven years old, he was decidedly better at necromancy than any other magic discipline. This was the time where his parents sat him down to talk about the wonders of Elemental magic, about bending the Earth’s elements to his will. Solomon pretended to be impressed and interested. Feigned a surprised expression here, an understanding “Oh,” there.

_And it worked._

His parents let him off the hook. For now.

Solomon continued studying necromancy on his own. Coming by books that tackled this magic discipline was hard, even more so when he was interested in learning how to use it. Most books only focused on how bad and wrong this discipline was, never on how to wield its astonishing powers. But Solomon knew better - he knew that this skill, ‘necromancy’, was fascinating, intriguing. He knew he needed to follow this strange magic that he felt was his calling, no matter what his parents said on the matter. He pretended to study for school late at night, and although his parents often times came into his room to check that he _was_ reading for school, he had learned the trick of hiding one book within another, bigger book. Thankfully, the books for school were big and many, many pages long whereas the books he had found on necromancy were small and quickly finished.

Solomon soon came to find that necromancy was easy. Channelling his energy into making dead animals slump around as if possessed was easier than making fire dance in his palms. Turning sad and withered plants into their earlier blooming selves was nothing compared to taking the moisture out of the air and making it rain.

When Solomon Wreath was ten years old, his parents found out his secret. They called on the priest, but Solomon had heard them. He was already out the door and down the street by the time the priest came to their house. What Solomon hadn’t foreseen, however, was that the priest had acolytes to round him up. He was caught when a particularly prominent cobblestone caught his foot and he fell to the ground.

Many a cry was uttered, all in the nature of begging the acolytes to let him go, to feign failure of their mission, but alas, their devotion to their priest was higher than their morals. At least as far as Solomon was concerned. He was brought back to his parents’ house and forcefully tied to a chair. Naturally, as any child who felt they were wrongly treated would, he thrashed and flailed as best he could, desperate to get free.

Solomon was not stupid - he knew what the priest was here to do, he knew what an exorcism was. Granted, he hadn’t heard much about them, but his _parents_ heard things now and again and would discuss them when they thought Solomon was fast asleep.

“Actiones nostras, quaesumus Domine, aspirando praeveni et adjuvando prosequere,” the priest began, and although Solomon was indeed not possessed by an evil spirit, his thrashing grew to the point his father had to hold the chair, so he didn’t topple over.

“Stop!” he cried out, and although he was not prone to tears, his eyes became wet. His heart was thumping aggressively in his chest, not unlike the wild creature that had been caged, and he was breathing hard and fast. Perspiration dripped down his face and back.

As he spoke, the priest swung an ornate little golden bell that carried with it a ghastly scent. One of the acolytes sprinkled holy water onto Solomon, and although it didn’t have the expected reaction, it did drive him even more feral. He didn’t exactly _snarl_ , but only because he knew that if he did, the priest and his acolytes would go even further.

Solomon just wanted it over with.

In the distance, the bells of the local church were rung. Almost as if this was magic, Solomon decided to stop thrashing. He decided to stop screaming for his parents to please, please just stop. He decided to sit still, to pretend to be a good boy.

This sudden course of action seemed to confuse his parents as well as the priest and his acolytes. But they continued, using more holy water and more of that hideous scent from the golden bell. The bells of the church were rung once more, and the priest began the exorcism itself.

“Exorcizmus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,“ he began, but now, Solomon was completely quiet. Granted, there were still tears in his eyes, and he couldn’t hold back a small sniffle here and there, but he didn’t thrash or flail or scream anymore. He simply sat there, practically _feeling_ how blank his stare was as he looked in the general direction of his parents, but without really _seeing_ them. He was vaguely aware that the priest continued speaking in Latin, continued to try and pull the ‘demons’ and ‘darkness’ out of him. Holy water was still sprinkled on him, and the horrible scent from the ornate gold bell was starting to give him a headache.

It was over after an hour or so. Solomon had lost track of time after the first long incantation. His parents had left his room, where the exorcism took place, and this in particular had filled him with a seething, blinding hatred.

When the priest’s acolytes untied him, he was too exhausted to try and fight them. The hatred, the anger, the contempt - none of it was towards the acolytes or the priest. It was solely towards his parents. He didn’t want to fight people who did not deserve it. But his parents, especially his father, were more deserving than anyone.

Solomon was going to get his revenge. This he swore.

He slept on the floor that night, too tired to crawl into bed.

No one came to check on him in the morning. When he woke up, it felt like he had once more been beaten with his father’s belt. His entire body was heavy, and it felt like every limb throbbed. A dull ache had set in, and he winced with every move.

When he had finally moved from the uncomfortable floor and to the door, he opened it and went to the kitchen where he found his mother in the process of making breakfast. Upon hearing the door creak, she turned her head, and her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Oh, thank God you’re awake!” she whispered and came over to him. He didn’t return her hug, or her happiness to see him.

“You’re late for school.” The voice was deep and unpleasant, but Solomon refused to let it show. Instead, he turned slowly to face his father.

“I will go right away,” Solomon said, trying so hard not to sneer, and went to his room, grabbed his bag, and walked out the door, slamming it behind him with more force than strictly necessary.

In school, everyone whispered behind his back. No doubt about the exorcism. News sure travelled fast. No one came up to ask him or talk with him. Not that they normally did - Solomon had always felt like a bit of an outcast. No friends, no understanding or kind teachers, no hobbies matching that of the other young sorcerers.

He didn’t care much for the subjects taught that day, and he got a note for mental absence that he ripped to pieces the moment he left the school’s premises.

As he walked towards his house, an idea struck him - what if he didn’t come home? What if he just… stayed away? And didn’t go back, ever again? The very idea had his heart palpitating, and he could practically feel the sweat already - not to mention his father’s anger if he found him - but the idea wouldn’t leave him alone.

He did, however, know that if his father were to find him, there would be Hell to pay. And as tough and hardened as Solomon had become, he was still but a child. Thus, he dutifully returned home that evening. His mother asked how school had been, to which he just shrugged. His father asked him the same question, and once more, Solomon shrugged. But when he saw his father start to undo his belt, he hurriedly added that they had gotten a lot of homework, and that he had better get to work so he didn’t fall behind.

This seemed to appease his father, and Solomon retreated to his room where he found his schoolbooks and, of course, his preferred book on necromancy. He had read this one many times now, but he was of the belief that a good book could never be read too much. Especially when it had something valuable to say or teach.

Solomon was left alone for most of the evening. No one came to tell him dinner was ready, so he didn’t eat that night. With his belly growling and crying in agony, he went to bed.

It would soon be over. Soon, he would leave.

And he wouldn’t bother looking back.

The following day was much like previous one. Breakfast, for which his stomach was eternally grateful, packing his bag, going to school, sitting in the classroom and reciting useless algebra, then heading home.

Only, today, Solomon had other plans. He started out walking towards his home, granted, he did, but when he reached and crossed the bridge, he took a sharp left instead of a right. With his heart hammering somewhere near his throat, he kept walking, walking, running, running, _sprinting_. People stared at him like he was mad, or perhaps like he was a genius, and either way, it made him laugh. He laughed and laughed, sprinting and sprinting, until his lungs burned and threatened to give out. The laughter was rough, grating. It wasn’t a sound he was used to making, and it came out more like a weird bark than anything else.

Only then, when his lungs were on fire and he could barely feel his legs, did Solomon stop in a dark alley to get back his breath. He glanced out into the throng of people. No one seemed to notice him. But who would? If he played his cards right, he could pretend to be homeless, an orphan, and then he most certainly wouldn’t be noticed or even acknowledged.

Yes. This was a plan. Not necessarily a good plan, but a plan, nonetheless.

Solomon sat down and heaved air into his desperately aching lungs. Then he noticed the stench of rot and decay. He looked around and found a small pile of dead rats further into the alley. His gut instinct was to recoil, but then he reminded himself that he was a necromancer - he could control death and shadows. What was there to fear in a few dead rats? It wasn’t like this was new to him.

Taking a deep breath, he opened his bag and got out the book on necromancy. He flicked through the pages until he reached the section about reanimating corpses.

He started murmuring under his breath as he reached out his hand and spread his fingers, then turned his hand and curled his fingers into the shape of a claw. His eyes were closed tightly, and he channelled all his energy into willing the bundle of rat corpses to move.

“Darkness of the world, death of the mortals, bend to my will, for I am your master,” he whispered and opened his eyes to see that one of rats were now slinking towards him. Grotesquely slumping and flopping against the ground, it wasn’t really _alive_ , but it wasn’t dead, either. It was somewhere in a weird limbo.

“Darkness of the world, death of the mortals, bend to my will, for I am your master,” Solomon repeated with all the authority his ten-year-old voice could muster. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. Enough to get the rat to raise its head. The body no longer slumped but became… alive.

Ecstatic and elated, Solomon kept repeating this phrase and reaching his hand out to each individual rat until they were all alive and squeaking and squealing around him. They dared not touch him, but didn’t dare go far away, either. They knew he was their master, that he controlled their fate, their second life, however short-lived it might be.

And it was rather short. Solomon might be good, but he was still young and didn’t have the energy to uphold such a chaotic, perverse attack against nature for long. He sagged against the brick wall and let his hands fall. The rats instantly tipped over, dead. Again.

“I’m the king of the rats,” he said to himself and laughed again. A hysterical laugh that surely would have gotten him a lashing back home. But he wasn’t back home. He could laugh as much and as loud as he wanted, and there would be no repercussions.

Solomon got little sleep that night. The constant fear of his parents, or someone who knew him, finding him and bringing him back kept waking him up. The hunger that seemed to have melted and become a permanent part of him had him sniffling. The hard ground made his shoulders and back ache.

He woke with the first rays of the Sun and hurried to his feet, dusting off his clothes as best he could. With no breakfast, and the fear of having to return home sooner or later, his stomach was in constant agony and kept reminding him of it by growling and groaning.

No one in school noticed his state. They barely acknowledged his presence. It filled him with hatred and disdain - he couldn’t wait to get out of this place.

When Solomon Wreath was fourteen years old, his parents gave him a choice - ditch the necromancy and get another chance to stay with them, or ditch them altogether.

They probably thought it was a hard choice to make. For Solomon, however, it was the easiest thing he had done in a long time. He had survived on the streets for weeks at a time, only coming home when it was imperative to his survival. He had taught himself the powers of necromancy, and though he still dared not use these incredible powers in public, he could feel them within him. An unnatural cold in his chest, gripping his heart but without slowing its beating. Shadows felt kinder and warmer. Death no longer frightened him, but rather, it fed his powers. Whenever death was near, he could feel his powers bubble and sizzle within. With no proper way to deal with it, he had resorted to scratching. Not a lot, not enough to warrant attention from those around him, but enough that it took his mind off the almost painful coiling he felt.

Solomon packed his things that night. His necromancy books and his toy. It was little more than an old rag doll, but Solomon treasured it dearly. It smelled like home, and although this was not necessarily a good thing, there was an almost mandatory feeling of safety connected with it. It also reminded him of his mother who was the only one who had ever showed him decency and kindness.

“Goodbye,” he said when he stood in the door, bag slung over his shoulder. His mother was sobbing, face in her hands, her entire body trembling. His father was still and quiet as a statue, didn’t let Solomon know what he was feeling. If he even _was_ feeling anything. For all Solomon knew, his father was an emotionless monster who only got joy out of beating his child. “Take care, mother.”

He left, closing the door gently behind him, and exhaled deeply. He refused to acknowledge the tears in his eyes - what good were they? For most of his childhood, he had only known misery and suspicion in this house. It was only natural to want to leave it. And when his parents outright told him he could leave if he chose to pursue his talent for necromancy? What choice did he then have, really?

“Don’t need them,” he whispered to himself and angrily wiped the tears away before walking down the street.

Solomon continued to live on the streets for a long time. He lost count of the days and how they stretched into weeks that in turn morphed into months. Crypts were his new home, as well as he lived under the arch of bridges when he was chased away from aforementioned crypts. He was constantly hungry.

But he was no longer scared. No longer did the terror of returning home reign him in. He felt free for the first time he could remember. It was a lonely life, but it was a free one, and that was all that Solomon really cared about.

Until he met another necromancer.

It was a bright sunny day, and Solomon sat by the river and dipped his feet in the wonderfully cool water. He leaned back on his elbows, closed his eyes, and basked in the sunlight. For a moment, he could forget the debilitating hunger. For a moment, he could forget the circumstances of his life some would call sad. For a moment, he could forget he had no one.

For a moment.

He sighed deeply and sat up, preparing to dry off his feet in the lush grass, when he saw someone walk towards him. He didn’t immediately jump into defence mode, but he did observe the stranger with suspicious eyes. It was very clear that this stranger was walking towards _him_ \- steps measured, head lifted, eyes trained on him. The person wore a sort of robe that was all black, and the hood was down.

When they were close enough, Solomon held out a hand and spread his fingers. The stranger stopped.

“Not one step closer!” Solomon shouted, and he was already channelling his energy into making shadows appear from the ground when the stranger _used their own shadows_ to punch him in face and make him tumble backwards. Solomon groaned and rubbed his throbbing jaw, but never took his eyes off the newcomer. The newcomer who could use shadows just like he could.

They came closer and closer until they reached out a hand to Solomon who only hesitantly took it. The stranger pulled him to his feet and… _smiled_ to him.

“What’s your name, boy?” they asked in a deep bass. A man, then.

“None of your business,” Solomon replied harshly, more than a little wary of the stranger. The stranger smiled wider.

“Now now, there’s no need for that tone. If you tell me your name, I’ll show you a place only for people like you and me.”

Solomon couldn’t help his eyebrows quirking upwards. A place… for people like them?

“A place for necromancers?” he asked, voice a tad softer. The stranger nodded.

“My name is Auron Tenebrae. I’m what we call a High Cleric at the Irish necromancer temple. It’s a temple for all Irish necromancers, and those who have come here from other parts of the world. If you let me, I will show you.”

Solomon thought about it - it was always risky going with someone you didn’t know, especially when said someone had punched you in the face. But this man, Auron Tenebrae, _had_ proven himself to be a necromancer. And who would willingly reveal themselves as a necromancer if they were not speaking the truth?

“What will happen if I say yes?” Solomon asked and slowly crossed his arms over his chest. Tenebrae smiled again.

“You’ll be taught in the ways of necromancy. How to properly wield your powers, how these powers must not be seen by mortal eyes, how to choose an object in which you store your strength and power.”

Solomon frowned. None of his books had mentioned _any_ of that, and he once more grew wary of Tenebrae.

“None of my books have mentioned that,” he said. Tenebrae laughed, and while it wasn’t an outright pleasant sound, it wasn’t the worst, either.

“My dear boy, most books concerning necromancy are from an age where very little was known about this special magical discipline. In the Temple, we have the vastest selection of current knowledge, and every day we discover something new. I take it you like reading?”

Solomon nodded.

“Good, because we have our own library, bursting at the seams with books on necromancy that are just waiting to be, ahem, devoured, so to say.” Solomon nodded again, a small smile twitching his lips upwards. This was starting to sound interesting.

“Is it like a school?”

“You could say so. But the subjects, let’s call them that, are only related to necromancy. You will be taught the very basic of magical discipline and other areas of magic one can specialise in, but the main focus will be necromancy.”

“I don’t like school.” Tenebrae laughed again.

“No one really does. But here, you’ll make friends, maybe even friends you’ll consider family. You’ll find subjects you like, subjects you don’t like, but they’ll all be equally important. You’ll live at the Temple as long as you choose to stay with us. _If_ you choose to stay with us, of course.”

Tenebrae reached out a hand and offered up a smile. Solomon considered it. It did sound appealing - get more power, a better understanding of said power? Get more knowledge on his skills and have a chance at becoming the best he could possibly be? That did sound highly appealing.

“How did you find me?”

“We’ve kept an eye on you for a while. You’re quite powerful for one so young, for someone who has not yet received guidance. You could become so much more powerful, my dear boy, if you get the right training and guidance.”

“Where is this Temple? I haven’t seen a temple for necromancers, it’s not exactly a popular discipline.” Tenebrae smiled and nodded.

“You’re absolutely right, it’s not very popular. But the Temple is hidden, far away from the prying eyes of mortals and sorcerers.”

Bitterness tugged at Solomon’s heart. Even among other sorcerers, they had to hide? Why did no one like them? What was so bad about necromancy? It was just control over shadows and darkness, as well as the ability to reanimate corpses. It wasn’t that bad!

“Why do we have to hide?” he asked, the bitterness evident in his voice. Tenebrae looked down at him with sympathetic eyes but didn’t answer his question. Not directly, at least.

“Sometimes, hiding is easier than fighting. We have to pick our battles wisely.”

“I won’t hide,” Solomon said, and the bitterness made way for determination and borderline hatred. Hatred for those who had wronged him, hatred for those who had made sure that necromancy was something to be ashamed of, something that warranted exorcisms and priests and religious ceremonies.

“Solomon. My name is Solomon Wreath.”

“Excellent.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! <3  
> Also, I highkey wanna write something about how Solomon's life in the temple was, so if you want to see me expand on this, let me know!


End file.
